


Of Kittens and Compromises

by daisybelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:19:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybelle/pseuds/daisybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their way home from a case, Sherlock and John find four kittens and take them in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This was written for katemacetak based on their prompt for the johnlockchallenges gift exchange.
> 
> The prompt was: "John and Sherlock find a litter of abandoned kittens near their flat and take them in. Antics ensue. I obviously want it to be Johnlock centered, but bonus points if other characters make a cameo to help out. Any rating."
> 
> Apparently even when I write about kittens, I still manage angst. And I'm pretty certain my kittens are very OOC and more like a Disney version, but I'm not so much of a kitten person myself. Otherwise enjoy.

"John"

John heard the footsteps behind him closing up, but simply walked on.

"John"

The Doctor ignored the calls. Instead he simply focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. It was a simple pattern, which didn't need any attention. But he couldn't stop. If he stopped, he would … Well, he wasn't too sure what he would do, but he was pretty certain that he would regret it. So he kept on going, trying to work off some of the anger boiling in him. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. He could see his breath forming little clouds of steam, but the cold did nothing to chill down his rage.

"John"

Sherlock's footsteps were still following hm. Any other day, he might be amused by the abbreviation of their usual pattern – the Detective leading, John eagerly behind him. Right now he was too angry to be amused. Left foot, right foot, right foot.

They were on their way home from a case. A case which allowed his husband to prove once again his genius. But unfortunately it also showed Sherlock's remarkable talent of getting himself in dangerous situations. John knew that the Detective loved those situations, throve on the adrenaline and jumped head first in any danger that might come his way, but this time it had been plain stupid. Following a gun smuggler ring Sherlock hadn't waited for backup, not even for John. As a result the Doctor had found him held at knifepoint by one of the bad guys.

The memory made him shiver. For a moment he closed his eyes, felt a little hesitancy. No, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. When he he had seen the small red trickle of blood slowly finding its way down a pale neck, he had felt real panic. It had taken all of his military experience to appear calm, to wait for the right moment, to talk to the man. The smuggler hadn't been interested in talking; instead he had tried to drag Sherlock with him, using him as a human shield.

The moment Sherlock had let his body drop to the ground, John had pulled the trigger. For a short moment he thought he had missed, had hit Sherlock instead of the man behind his husband. Even now he could still feel the nausea, the urge to run to Sherlock. The instead relief had made him dizzy.

And until now a small part of him wanted nothing more than to keep the man in the safety of their home and never letting him out. He knew this was ridiculous, because one of the first things that had attracted him to Sherlock beside the brilliant mind had been the danger of his profession, their profession. In a way it fuelled his anger even more, that he felt the urge to change this remarkable man. He tried another calming breath. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

It had been their first big case (including sleepless nights, violent violin sessions and pacing through the flat) since they had progressed from friends to husbands to lovers. There had been some minor investigations in the last four weeks – two cold cases for Lestrade, a theft in a warehouse, an attempted fraud – but none of them had involved any chasing of dangerous criminals. In fact everything had been very civilised, as if the criminal world had realised that Sherlock and John needed time to adjust to the change in their relationship.

And evidently this change also meant that the need to protect Sherlock had become even more urgent than before. It was astonishing that realising you were head over heels for this mad man for some time aggravated everything. Although technically nothing had changed, the love had been there before. But John was not in the mood for such philosophical thoughts. He still fought against the mixture of anger (at his husband, the smuggler and even Lestrade for being late) and the worry, the urge to protect, the adrenaline for having shot another man for Sherlock.

"John"

A hand touched his elbow. Immediately the Doctor spun around, shoving Sherlock against a nearby wall.

"Don't …"

John didn't even know what he wanted to say. He stared at the beautiful face in front of him, tracing the mark on the neck, finally meeting those mesmerizing eyes. What he saw calmed him a bit: curiosity, cataloguing, remorse. Sherlock made no movement, just let himself be pinned against the wall.

"I'm fine, John. I had everything under control …"

John snorted, a sound supported by another shove.

"Control? He had a knife at you neck … God … That's not control, that's stupid."

"John"

The smooth baritone transferred soothing helplessness; John didn't even know how he did that. For a moment the world stood still, when he suddenly felt a movement at his feet.

The adrenaline that had already been degraded, spiked to new level. With a sharp movement he shoved Sherlock further in the wall, while spinning around to look for the new danger.

Except there was nobody, no movement, no criminals. There were alone on the street. John tried to calm his ragged breath; he searched the ground for the source.

A kitten.

A little black kitten looking at him.

His knees almost gave out with relief, the rush of emotion forcing him to close his eyes. When he opened them again, the little cat hadn't moved. Instead it kept on staring, until it turned and walked away with a small miaow. His gaze followed the kitten to a card box. With adorable clumsiness it disappeared in the box. But just a moment later its head popped up, accompanied by two more and a canon of miaow started.

John walked over to the card box, looking into it. The black cat was surrounded by three more kittens, a ginger one, another black with one white paw and a grey one. Four pairs of eyes were watching him as he crouched down and tried to grab one of the furballs. Since the black one seemed the most adventurous one, he took it carefully, meeting no resistance. He set it on his hand, smiling at the fact that he could hold the animal in one hand. The kitten obviously had no objections, instead it curled itself on his palm and he felt a tiny rough tongue licking his thumb. He could hear a little purr and he felt himself getting calmer, finding his balance back.

For a while he just watched the little animal, attempted to pet it. Judging from the way the kitten nudged his head against his fingers, the animal liked his ministrations. He relaxed even more. His gaze lingered a little longer on the black furball, before he turned around to look for Sherlock. The Detective still stood against the wall, but his attention was settled on the kitten in John's hand.

 

* * *

Sherlock was confused. It was a rare feeling, but not so uncommon that he didn't recognize it. And certainly not an uncommon occurrence in regard of John. The Doctor had been angry at him for the stunt with the smuggler. It was a well-known pattern between the two, Sherlock would look for danger, John would rescue and lecture him.

But this time the anger had gone deeper. Was it because of the marriage? It hadn't changed anything, the feeling had been there for a long time, but now they were acknowledging it. Did this really change so much?

When John had pinned him against the wall, he had stayed calm. There was never a second of fear that John might hurt him. Instead he had watched the struggle on John's expressive face, the worry, the anger, the relief. He had been surprised by John's reaction to the kitten, but that could be explained – the lingering adrenaline from the case and reflexes learnt in the Afghan desert.

But the most confusing thing was happening right in this moment. John calmed down while caressing a kitten. Sherlock was used to fast changes, usually he was responsible for that, but the contrast between the soldier just moments ago and the caretaker seemed a bit too much, even for them.

The Detective had been mentally prepared for another lecture on safety procedures, which were totally reasonably, but not practical in the rush of chase. He had known that John would follow him, as he knew John would always follow, but somehow this situation brought back memories of Mycroft's lecture on marriage.

" _You have to learn to compromise. John has put up with so much from you, you need to show him some commitment." – "I have married him." – "No, Mummy got you married. You just decided to stay married."_

Which was of course true, but didn't change the fact that he felt committed to this marriage. He even liked the idea of 'forever', although he would never admit such romantical nonsense. Sherlock had always assumed that John knew, but maybe not.

In a brief moment of brutal honesty, Sherlock regarded their wedded life until now. He had been right, nothing had changed. It seemed that it was still mostly John who did the main work in their relationship, giving Sherlock free reign to indulge in his own moods. But the Doctor had always been the one responsible for the emotional aspects, Sherlock's job had been the analysis of facts.

That was probably the reason why he struggled to understand how this tiny creature could calm a very angry John Watson so effortless. (It had been at least a 7 on Sherlock's internal range of John's mood – starting from mild annoyance at a new experiment (1) to walking out on the Detective (10). Sherlock usually started searching for ways to calm his husband for everything higher than a 5).

He watched curiously the cat on John's palm, meeting the glance of his husband. When he approached the pair, he got the funny feeling that he was evaluated by the black beast. Sherlock settled down next to John, offering his index finger to the cat. It was met by a playful stroke with a paw. For a moment he enjoyed the game with the cat before he returned his attention to John.

Amazing. The Doctor seemed totally calm and relaxed. Sherlock couldn't detect any lingering anger in those blue eyes, only beginning exhaustion. What Sherlock took effort and time; this kitten had managed in moments. Sherlock felt an absurd gratitude (and jealousy). Maybe Mycroft was right (another thing on the never-to-admit-list), maybe this was the time to start with the whole compromise thing.

"Why don't we take them with us?"

 


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning Sherlock woke up alone in their bed. This wasn't unexpected, if rather unusual since their marriage. John had taken some naps during the case, while Sherlock had stayed with his normal sleep-denying routine. So after their arrival at home the last night, they more or less stumbled immediately in their bed, only taken the time to arrange some improvised cat toilet and feeding dish.

The Detective was a little bit disappointed to discover the letter on the night stand, which confirmed his suspicion. Of course he had known that John was due to a morning shift at St. Mary's A&E, he had rather hoped John would cancel today's duties and Sherlock could prove to him how sorry he was about yesterday's events.

Since staying alone in bed was always boring, he got up, finding his way to the bathroom before heading in the kitchen for his dosage of caffeine. Rather focused on the coffee preparation it took his brain a moment before commanding his body to stop. The whole floor in front of him was covered in glass. Two petri dishes and one beaker he catalogued immediately before his gaze swept through the rest of the room.

The table was a mess. Most of the glassware from his chemistry set was lying on the side; several fluids had emerged to a brownish sea on the table which steadily dripped on the floor. (Fortunately John had insisted that the most dangerous ones were sealed so the glass on the floor was still the greatest health hazard.) He could even see some of his slides for the microscope in the puddle on the floor.

The culprit for this mess was easily spotted. One of the kittens (the black one they had met first) sat next to the Bunsen burner, alternately licking its paws and rubbing itself on the metal of the burner. Amazingly there were no traitorous signs of his earlier path of destruction seen on its body, but the tiny paw prints on the table were difficult to miss, even if the observer wasn't the world's only Consulting Detective.

Sherlock had to admit that he was impressed. He knew that he was pretty good at leaving a right mess of things, the reason for many discussions during his cohabitation with John, but this small creature had topped every single one of his previous attempts in less than two hours. Destroying a good part of his lab and three current experiments in the course was quite impressive. The only problem was, he couldn't force it to clean as John usually did with him.

He considered briefly leaving this mess for John, after all he had found those kittens in the first place, but he didn't like the idea of all those fluids on the ground. On their own they might be harmless, but he wouldn't willingly risk an accidently mixture, at least not in a more controlled experiment.

With a sigh he returned to the bedroom, searching for his slippers. Upon finding them he was confronted with the next problem. Apparently one of the other kittens had interpreted the open door as an invitation and mistaken his shoe as the best place to rest. It showed its annoyance on being disturbed very clearly and proved that his defensive skills were in fact intact.

Sherlock retrieved the red striped shoe occupier carefully, not wanting to risk another scratch. It was rather remarkable how annoyed a miaow could sound. Maybe a chance for another exp … no, there was no way knowing the amount of annoyed sounds a cat could produce would be particularly helpful in any future cases. Despite, his former gratitude had vanished completely and the destruction of his kitchen experiments didn't help the cats' case. He would use this day to get rid of them.

With this plan in mind he fetched the cleaning supplies, he entertained himself for some minutes imagining John's surprise at the fact that Sherlock not only knew where they stored them, but also how to use them. Really, as if he hadn't managed years on his own before John. His private scolding at John (which was only half the fun, when the man wasn't at home) was interrupted when he discovered some new acquisitions to the flat.

Sherlock eyed the new (real) cat toilet suspiciously, as well as the toys and the feeding dish. He frowned at the paw printed on the bowl. This wasn't a good sign. If John had skipped his breakfast (and he got never tired of explaining the importance of this meal to Sherlock) to buy cat supplies, those cats meant already more to him than the Detective had realised.

A further inspection of the flat revealed several containers of cat food, printouts of internet guides for raising kittens and worst of all a basket for the cats stuffed with one of John's favourite blankets. Damn, John was already attached to them.

Usually this wouldn't stop Sherlock from acting, but this was John. John, his husband. John who had smiled at him weakly when he had offered to take the kittens with them. John who had been so angry and was calmed by those kittens. What should he do? With an impatient gesture he ruffled his curls. Clearly he needed more data. He had to wait for John.

* * *

Wearily John opened the front door. It had been an awful long day. And the lack of sleep during the last days had certainly not helped. He had considered relying on the strange arrangement between the head of the hospital and Sherlock, that he could pull out any minute, but he hated to do this on such a short notice. At least they should have a chance to find somebody else for his shift.

It had been a very low day, which hadn't helped his tiredness. He had to use his old army tricks to stay awake; thankfully there had been no emergencies that forced him into an OR. All he wanted right now was something to eat, a cuddle on the sofa with Sherlock and then early to bed. Sherlock would have gotten rid of the kittens, so he could return the supplies to the neighbours where he had borrowed them. He only hoped the Detective had given them to a pet shelter rather than to just leave them were they had found them.

It didn't even occur to him that Sherlock would keep the cats, after all the man had never even showed any interest in animals. Yesterday's rescue had been a clear expression of their mixed emotions after the case. And though he had been thankful for the distraction and the calming down effect, he didn't think that raising kittens in their biohazardous flat would be considered a good idea by anyone.

That's why he was quite surprised to be greeted by a miaow and a kitten on the stairs. He picked it up and took it back with him in the flat, frowning at the unexpected encounter.

"Sherlock, why …", he began instead of a greeting only to be interrupted by his husband.

"Oh good, you found Morbius."

"Morbius?" John looked at Sherlock who sat in his armchair in his usual dramatic fashion. The effect was a bit altered due to the cat in his lap.

"Yes, he was climbing the curtains. It reminded me of an old episode of Dr Who."

"Morbius, yes?"

"Yes."

John set the kitten down, which started off in the direction of the windows. They both watched the kitten's progress until it started climbing up the fabric.

"Curtains, I told you."

He was too tired for this. John removed his shoes and his jacket and sank slowly on the sofa. But this process was also halted by Sherlock.

"Careful, this is Nero's second favourite place next to the Bunsen burner." Sherlock hesitated. "And you might remove your shoes; Loake has a rather unhealthy obsession with footwear."

"Nero, Loake?"

Apparently he was trapped in a parallel world where he could only stammer two words per sentence.

"Nero is the complete black kitten, Loake the one with the white paw", Sherlock explained.

"Right", John muttered while inspecting carefully the sofa behind him, before sitting down. And before he could stop himself he asked: "And the one on your lap?"

"That's Vivaldi."

"Vivaldi?"

"You must be more exhausted than I thought if you repeat everything I say."

John felt Sherlock's analysing gaze swapping over him. Yes, he was exhausted. Too exhausted to comprehend why Sherlock had named the kittens or why they were still here in the first place. Hopefully it didn't mean what he thought, that Sherlock wanted to keep the cats.

"What about the consulting?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly.

God, it felt as if his brain was slowly powering off bit by bit. What he had meant was: What about your consulting business? Don't you think the kittens will annoy you? And what about their hair? He had found hair on his clothing the whole day and they had only been in the flat for the night. But voicing his thought felt like too much of an effort, so he just waved his hand non-committedly.

It seemed this was enough for Sherlock to understand at least some of his rumbled thoughts.

"Don't be ridiculous, there are lint brushes for that."

Oh god, he had it really thought through. They were going to keep the cats.

Before he could utter a word of protest, Sherlock jumped from his chair and tugged John to his feet, steering him to the bedroom. He felt a sting of desire when he watched his husband effectively stripping him, judging from the small smirk on Sherlock's face this didn't go unnoticed, although he was only guided on the bed and tucked in. With a peck on his lips, Sherlock wished him a good night and left him alone.

This night John had a weird dream about Sherlock turning into a cat and climbing up the curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I have no knowledge of Dr Who, but when I typed 'curtains' and 'body' in the google's search mask, one of the hits was an episode of Dr Who. There was mentioned a severed head, a curtain - and that was enough for me to come up with the name and for Sherlock to not delete it. Loake is the manufacturer of John Watson's shoes for BBC Sherlock, but nobody says Sherlock couldn't own a pair of them too. Nero should be self-explanatory ;-) Vivaldi will be explained later.


	3. Chapter 3

24 minutes. Mycroft was already staying here for 24 minutes. That was eight minutes longer than his average visit if he just came to check on Sherlock. And two minutes longer if John was foolish enough to offer tea.

Of course, his brother had brought with him a file that required legwork. If Sherlock was in a generous mood – he wasn't – he'd found it funny that they both knew that the case in this file was already solved and could be handled by one of Mycroft's footmen. Really interesting cases were hard to come by, even for the British Government.

And despite this knowledge as well as the fact that Sherlock would refuse, Mycroft was still here. 25 minutes by now. It was infuriating. Even more so when Sherlock didn't even get the satisfaction of a displeased expression for the violin playing. Which could be connected with the fact that for once he actually played music. Vivaldi – it was one of the very few things he enjoyed about the kittens' presence, the discovery that little Vivaldi would always miaow to the notes of Vivaldi's 'Spring' from 'Four seasons'. When he had showed the little trick to John, the Doctor had giggled the whole time. But Mycroft's presence even killed this little joy.

Sherlock blamed the kittens. He was playing music (Vivaldi of all things) in the presence of his brother and his brother extended his visit. It certainly wasn't helped that those disloyal beasts had greeted Mycroft with little miaows; Nero – always the thrill-seeking one – had rubbed himself against the British Government as he had done it before with the Bunsen burner. The little black kitten really had a thing for danger.

And now Nero was sitting on Mycroft's lap, enjoying the calm strokes. The scene oddly reminded Sherlock of one of those ridiculous spy movies John had made him watch, where the evil master was also stroking a cat. Now he fully understood why cats were always associated with the devil.

Apparently it was time for graver measurements. With a shrill shriek he stopped playing.

"Is there no war to start today?"

Mycroft just smiled impartially.

"It's nice to see you in such a domestic bliss. First the marriage and now you've already adopted kittens. Shall I expect you moving to the countryside in three months? I might know a nice little country house in Sussex."

Sherlock scowled, but before he could move the conversation to the insults, the doorbell rang. One ring, firm pressure. A client.

"Aah, another case for you, my dear brother. Then I'll be best on my way."

Sherlock couldn't help but raising his eyebrows. Maybe he should enlist some of the Homeless-Network to pose as clients, because finally (really finally) Mycroft rose from John's armchair, carefully picking up the black kitten. With a last stroke he set the small creature down on the armrest from where it looked up. A tiny paw was raised as if to say goodbye. With a nod to Sherlock Mycroft opened to the door to an elderly woman who was accompanied by the homecoming John.

"Oh, hello Mycroft."

Sherlock noticed the surprise in John's voice as well as the questioning look.

"Mycroft was just leaving." Judging from the small twitch on his brother's right eye, his brother had heard the unspoken 'It was about time'.

"Yes, John. Unfortunately some minor problems in the office. But it's good to see you've settled in the wedded life."

For a moment John stared after the leaving figure, then he closed the door with a shrug and got rid of his coat. Sherlock took the chance to observe the woman who had sat down on the sofa.

Obese, but recently started a diet, fresh highlights in the hair, two kids, housewife – oh god, her husband probably had an affair. The Detective was already bored before she had even opened her mouth.

He watched her attempts at getting comfortable and declining John's offer of tea while he waited for her to speak. All hope that she might offer an interesting case was long gone, but John had taught him that he should at least let the clients speak before he dismissed them.

Despite John's attempts at hospitality the woman seemed uneasy and obviously didn't know how to start.

"Well, what can I do for you?"

Maybe verbal encouragement would actually lead to some progress.

The only effect was more squirming and picking up one of those blasted kittens (Loake). What had he done to deserve this?

He watched her stroking the cat before he explained impatiently.

"I can't actually help you if you don't tell me your problem!"

He could feel John's scolding look, but as long as his husband wasn't saying anything or worse attempted to shin him, he chose to ignore it. At least the woman in front of him finally found her voice. As expected it was about her husband having an affair. She even knew who the other woman was, so why was she bothering him?

"Boring, go away!"

"Sherlock." Again John, but not in his very serious Captain-voice. Still not in trouble then.

"But what about …"

What else? There was no case and he wanted her to go.

"I said go away."

She still didn't move. Instead she clutched on Loake, holding him against her chest as if he could help her. Those evil kittens, not only Mycroft, but also boring clients stayed longer than he wanted them. Sherlock lost his patience. In a rush he was in front of the woman, removing the kitten from her hand and setting it on the sofa. When he turned around he saw the disapproving face of his husband. Damn, John and those kittens from hell.

* * *

John watched Sherlock disappear in the kitchen. Obviously it was now his turn to get rid of the woman. He did his best to apologize for Sherlock's behaviour while he helped her in her jacket and guided her out of the front door. On his way up he collected Morbius who had once again found his way on the stairs. They were his favourite part of the house, apart from the curtains of course.

When John returned to the flat, Sherlock had settled at the desk. The Doctor thought about berating his husband for the poor woman's treatment, but thought better of it. There were only so many times you could have the same argument. After all this was normal Sherlock-behaviour and admittedly it was quite effective to get rid of the unpleasant and disconcerting people that arrived regularly at Baker Street. And no to forget Mycroft's visit earlier that certainly didn't help with Sherlock's mood, it was one of the most annoying side effects of his brother-in-law.

Besides he was more worried about the little episode with Loake. John knew that the Detective was pretty possessive of things he liked or loved, but he had never thought that this would also apply to those kittens. The look on Sherlock's face when he had grabbed the black kitten from the woman had said everything. If Sherlock wasn't willing to share them just for some minutes (the woman clearly were comforted by the furball), he saw a bright future as a cat owner before him.

Yes, admittedly they were cute, but he was still not an animal person. When he had thought about his future life during his youth or those rare times of peace in Afghanistan, he had always fancied the typical little house with wife children and maybe (a very vague maybe) a dog. He had realised long ago that this fantasy would be pretty far from the truth, even before he understood that he was madly in love with Sherlock. As far as he was concerned the wife, the children and the dog were a dusty fantasy on a shelf in the back of his mind.

It was nothing he regretted, he was content with his life as it was. If just those kittens would disappear. But Sherlock's attachment to those animals had become a real problem here. And he had no idea how to talk with Sherlock about this. He didn't want to hurt him, but four kittens? Maybe he should offer a compromise, keeping one or two and giving the others away.

John had taken the chance to ask around at the surgery whether anybody was interested in the cats. Until now, he hadn't been in luck, but this could change. It was worth a try. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he saw Sherlock caressing Vivaldi with such a lost look in his face that he couldn't speak. God, this was pathetic. They were married. They had talked about everything before. Quickest ways of decapitation, lifespan of butterflies, preferences of bread, anal sex. Talking about kittens shouldn't be a problem at all, but somehow those cats managed to silence his attempts at talking.

And once again he found himself just clearing his throat and asking: "Tea?"

 


	4. Chapter 4

The arrival hall at Heathrow Airport was crowded. Usually he would have avoided it, but Mrs Hudson had asked him to pick her up after her two week holiday with her sister in Spain. When he had agreed, it had been more out of moral duty since she put up with so much from him and Sherlock, but right now he was glad about that fact. He had to talk to her about the kittens and without Sherlock suspecting him to do so.

He was a little bit surprised that he managed to keep this secret from his husband. During the last days he had raised the subject often enough, that Sherlock surely had to know how he felt about the kittens. After all, the man was a Detective and usually able to read John like a book. But he hadn't said anything, maybe he wanted to ride it out. That's why John had decided to take matters in his own hand.

In a way, he felt bad about what he was going to do. But begging Mrs Hudson to forbid any animal keeping seemed the only way left to get rid of the kittens. Every objection he had was countered by Sherlock and the way his husband treated them only showed his affection for the four animals. That was probably the reason why he felt so guilty. He loved that man, it seemed wrong to deny him something he clearly wanted.

But John was fed up with their new flatmates. Those four furballs had become more and more adventurous in the flat. They climbed on everything, but didn't always manage to find their way back on the ground. He didn't know how often he had rescued one of them from some place high on the shelves. Irritatingly they always found their way back on the shelf. Sometimes he wondered if they were just amusing themselves training the humans around them or simply saving energy to climb on something else.

Unfortunately they weren't only interested in high shelves. They also found any kind of upholstery pretty fascinating. The rug had several places were loose threads stuck out; the same could be said for two of his jumpers, his favourite sweatpants and the Union Jack pillow. Not to forget the hair, he never managed to get rid of all the hair. How Sherlock always looked so perfect was a mystery in itself.

On the bright side, the kittens took care of the dusting. He didn't think the surfaces had ever been so clean. And Sherlock had started to seal all flasks and containers after the rather unfortunate incident with the eyeballs on the counter.

He hadn't dared to think too much how to approach the subject with his landlady, afraid that Sherlock might start his mind-reading thing again. Thinking now through several ways, he almost missed his landlady. After a warm hug, he took her bags and steered her to the cab stand outside. They had to wait a little in the row and he listened to her description of the hotel and the other guests, hoping for an opportune moment to inject his wish.

It wasn't until they were seated and on their way to Baker Street before he got the chance to say something. When she finally asked, how they had been, he blurted out:

"Sherlock has adopted four kittens."

He was a bit embarrassed how desperate he sounded, but they were testing his patience way more than Sherlock ever had. (He was quite aware that most people would see this different.)

"Oh, kittens, how lovely. I always thought about getting a cat for myself, you know. But I always feared I might look like an embittered old spinster."

Mrs Hudson was clearly still in her holiday mood. John had the feeling she hadn't understood the severity of the problem.

"Nobody could mistake you for an embittered old spinster, Mrs Hudson. And it's not only one cat, it's four. I couldn't stop him."

Well, that part was true. However Mrs Hudson still didn't see the problem at hand.

"Sherlock would never hurt somebody on purpose", she assured him.

Suppressing a sigh and his dwelling panic, he tried to make her see his point.

"Yes, I know that. But I'm a little concerned for the flat, you know. The four are a handful and they tend to explore everything. I'm afraid they had damaged your wallpaper and the floor."

She was always so concerned for the flat and the damage Sherlock put to it, surely this would be the decisive point. Apparently not.

"I'm sure it's alright, my dear. But I will look into it."

She patted his knee reassuringly, before sighing at the typical London rain and returning to memories of her holiday including lots of Spanish sunshine. John could only give affirmative noises, too worried that her cheerful holiday mood would ruin his whole plan.

At Baker Street John took care of the cab fee and her bags, before entering the house. They were greeted by a rather enthusiastic Sherlock, which raised all kinds of suspicion in John. What did his husband plan?

* * *

Sherlock had waited impatiently until the taxi with John and Mrs Hudson arrived. It was about time she returned; he hoped this would solve the little problem with the kittens once and for all. He had used John's absence to expose the most eye-catching damages even more prominently, pulling chairs out of the way, draping the curtain and directing the light of the desk lamp to highlight the scratches in the wall paper. For good measure he added some crumbs of dry food on the floor, between the cat toys. This should do it. There was no way Mrs Hudson could miss the damage to her flat.

It was pathetic that he had to use Mrs Hudson to solve a problem for him, but John's anxious voice when he asked if the kittens interfered with his work was more than obvious. John didn't want to lose the kittens, but was afraid to disturb Sherlock. The detective had learnt a long time ago, that he had no resistance against a John Watson who looked at him with those babyblue eyes, and especially if they there was anxiety in it, as if Sherlock was about to break his heart.

Well, technically he was, but if everything went as planned, John would never know, not even suspect him. Mrs Hudson would see the damage and demand compensation and the eviction of the kittens. As back-up plan he would make allowance to pay for the damage, surely this would open John's eyes. John, who was always so worried about money (as if there was a reason to worry, they could pay for more than this if they wanted ... or needed to). Yes, the plan was fool proof.

He rushed down the stairs to greet his landlady. When he caught an inquiring look from his husband, he reprimanded himself not to appear quite so eager. John wasn't an idiot like Donovan or worse Anderson and had learnt to read him quite well during the years – which was useful on occasion, but not right now.

Gently he guided Mrs Hudson upstairs. As usual Morbius had sensed his chance to explore the staircase and came towards them. Sherlock couldn't have planned it better, escaping cats - they could damage the whole house. Maybe he should have set all the kittens on the stairs, Vivaldi would have surely liked a new wallpaper to destroy. Or maybe not, there was no sense in being too obvious.

"Oh, is this one of your kittens?" Mrs Hudson asked.

Inwardly, Sherlock rolled his eyes. Clearly John had told her about them, probably to convince her first of their stay. Now, that he thought about it, he remembered that John had been very eager to get to the airport despite his earlier reluctance. He had underestimated his husband. But the inquiring look he shot at the Doctor confirmed that John didn't look as happy as he would be if Mrs Hudson had already agreed to his wish. So there was still a chance and he knew her longer than John.

Returning his attention to his landlady, he introduced her to the animal.

"Yes, this is Morbius. I'm afraid they are a bit temperamental."

Without regard for her hip, Mrs Hudson picked up the grey cat and inspected it closely. A little paw was outstretched as if to touch her nose, but the elder woman caught it with a finger and started caressing it.

"You are cutie, aren't you."

Sherlock was positive that he had never heard her speaking in this tone of voice before. She even chuckled happily when the kitten produced a miaow. The remaining steps were climbed with a stream of cooing sounds. Focused on the kitten in her hand, she almost stumbled over Nero who had taken his role as doorman. Clearly now she would see the danger of those cats. But no, she simply crouched down and took the other cat too. Maybe those damn kittens worked their calming magic on every ordinary person.

"As you can see, they damaged a rather large part of the wallpaper and the curtains. Of course we are willing to pay this with the next rent, just give me the right sum."

From the corner of his eyes he saw John, who had joined them after leaving Mrs Hudson's bags in her flat, frowning at the change in their living room. Sherlock wondered if he had been too obvious, but the Doctor gave no sign of disapproval. So everything still alright.

Except for the fact that Mrs Hudson wasn't even listening to him. Instead she sat now on the sofa (on one of the very clear scratches) and placed both kittens in her lap. Instantly they formed an unseparable knot of limbs, fighting for the hand that caressed them.

This wasn't right, this was not what he had expected. He was glad that John had chosen this moment to prepare tea for the three of them. Maybe he could still keep this secret from him, but it was definitely time to cut the subtleties.

"Of course, I'm afraid they won't stop there, so if you wish, we will find them another home."

There, he had said it, had spelt it out for her, she simply had to nod and he had every excuse that he needed.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock. Of course they stay."

He heard the crash of a tea cup from the kitchen. John was obviously so happy that he lost his usual calm.


	5. Chapter 5

"John"

A lick on his neck.

"John"

Teeth catching his earlobe.

"John"

Another case was solved, another time that John was followed by Sherlock. But this time the voice calling his name was more of a breathless demand. The man himself was plastered over John's back while they were slowly trying to climb up the stairs.

Long fingers slipped under his jumper, tucked the shirt out of his trousers und slid underneath. Sherlock still wore his gloves and the feeling of cold leather send a shiver down John's spine. This didn't go unnoticed by the Detective and he splayed his whole hand on John's tummy when they finally arrived in their flat.

Immediately he was turned around and loosely pinned against the wall by Sherlock's whole body. For a moment their eyes locked. Their faces were so close together that he shared his husband's breath. Achingly slow those plush lips descended on his.

The kiss started languidly despite the fact that they had been teasing each other the whole way home. He felt Sherlock's tongue mapping his mouth, licking over teeth and gum, playing with his own. It had become one of his favourite sensations, snogging his husband.

But soon it wasn't enough. The kiss grew urgent as John took his time to caress Sherlock's mouth just as carefully. Hands worked on buttons to remove clothes while John's mouth left Sherlock's with a little bite at the lower lip before nibbling on the jaw and on this swanlike neck. The Detective let out a shaky breath while turning his head to give John better access.

John removed a silken shirt (purple – one of his favourites) to leave a bite on the now exposed collarbone. He opened the shirt further, greeting every inch of exposed pale flesh with kisses and nibbles. He took his time as long as Sherlock allowed this, judging from the ragged breathing and the desperate tugging on his clothes, he would not have much more time before the Detective took control.

Surely, soon after this thought John felt a hand in his neck guiding his head back to luscious lips. Sherlock began undressing him in earnest, momentarily pulling out of the kiss to remove John's jumper. The Doctor felt the hot breath before moist lips enveloped his earlobe while he shrugged out of his shirt.

He arched his back to get skin to skin contact with Sherlock's chest, the material of Sherlock's shirt sliding over his nipples. He couldn't suppress a groan and felt the answering breathless chuckle from his husband.

"Bedroom!"

Sherlock steered him away from the door through the kitchen, all the while his lips never leaving John's skin for a moment. John palmed the other man's erection before fumbling on the belt, eliciting small moans.

When they finally reached their bedroom they disentangled themselves to remove the rest of their clothing. John climbed on the bed, crawling backwards until he was in the middle, Sherlock following him immediately, laying himself on top of John.

For a moment they just looked at each other, sharing the pleasure of naked skin on naked skin. Sherlock's mouth descended on his …

"Ouch"

With a yell the Detective jerked upwards, his knee leaving a bruise against John's thigh. Stunned for a moment, it took John a moment to recognize the small red furball sliding of Sherlock's back leaving angry red marks on the pale skin.

* * *

With a fluid movement Sherlock grabbed the kitten on his back. He resisted the urge to simply throw it out, but actually stood up and set it very determinately in front of the bedroom door before he closed it.

This had to end, he couldn't take it anymore. Those damn kittens were everywhere. He had put up with the constant vigilance in his own flat, with the tedious task of removing all of their hair of each of his suits, hell, he even remembered to feed them sometimes. But this, interrupting when he was having sex with his husband, was too much. They had to go.

He strode back to the bed, grabbing his blue dressing gown on the way, before he slowly settled down on the end of the bed. John was now sitting across from him, reaching out. Sherlock felt a warm hand caressing his cheek.

"You alright, love?"

Sherlock sighed.

"They have to go."

"The kittens? … But we could just close the door, there is no need …"

"There is every need. I can't stand them, they are everywhere. They sit on my chair, they ruin my experiments. They are annoying. And I know you adore them and I tried to compromise, but I can't anymore. They have to go."

For a moment John appeared stunned, but then he started laughing. Sherlock frowned, that was not the reaction he had expected. On his short way back to the bed, he had imagined a variety of scenarios, all more or less ending with an unhappy John. He had prepared himself for an argument, for reasons that those little beasts should stay. He had even feared that John would convince him otherwise, but not this. Laughing hadn't made it on his list.

"Why are you laughing?"

But John had lost every ability to answer, laying boneless on their bed, shaking from laughter.

"John?"

Sherlock could see that John was trying, but each word was followed by another outburst.

"You don't … the kittens … compromising."

This wasn't helpful in the slightest. But John finally calmed down enough to speak coherently. Still broadly smiling he managed a whole sentence.

"I thought you wanted to keep them."

Incredulously Sherlock looked at his husband, understanding dawning: "You kept them for me?"

At this John heavily nodded and got on his knees to grab Sherlock. The Detective allowed a small kiss before he pulled back.

"What about the cat toilet and the food bowls?", he asked accusingly. "You bought them toys! And Food!"

Again John bent forward: "I borrowed them from the neighbours next door, their cat had just died." He nibbled at Sherlock's lip, before he added.

"What about you? You gave them names?"

Getting a little distracted, it took Sherlock a moment to answer.

"How was I supposed to call them? Black kitten? Kitten with white paw? That would have been ridiculous."

A chuckle answered him and he couldn't resist catching it with his mouth. When they broke apart for air, John leant back, dragging Sherlock along with him while murmuring:

"Not as ridiculous as keeping cats for the other's sake. We'll have to find a decent home for them tomorrow."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, before he berated himself.

"That deserves me right; I should have never listened to Mycroft's advice on marriage."

John, whose attention had wandered to his neck and caused Sherlock to shudder involuntary, was obviously not further interested in verbal communication.

"Right now I don't want to talk about your brother."

Sherlock couldn't agree more, when he found John's mouth for another heated kiss.

* * *

It was until much later, when they both lay entangled in their bed, Sherlock's head resting on John's chest, that they returned to the topic.

"What was Mycroft's advice on marriage?"

His husband hesitated: "He said I should try to make concessions, to compromise."

"And you thought keeping the kittens although you hated them would be a good compromise?"

"You tolerate the body parts and the experiments, I thought it would only be fair to tolerate the kittens in return."

John could hear the uncertainty on his husband's face, emotional topics were still undiscovered territory for him.

"Thank you, but I don't want them. Maybe we could give one to Mrs Hudson, she seemed quite fond of them." John mused.

"I doubt she is still fond of them when they ruin her new wallpaper."

"Yeah, right. What about Molly?"

"Lestrade doesn't like cats." Sherlock simply stated.

"What has this to do with Lestrade? Oh, you mean, the two of them …?"

"Yes, I'm quite certain."

John sighed. "Well, I could always make a note for the black board in the surgery or the hospital."

"There is no need, I know the perfect place for them." Sherlock sounded quite sure.

"Tell me", John demanded.

"The children's home near Bond Street. They have a problem with mice and I think the children will like them."

"That's brilliant." John couldn't help but smile. He tugged at Sherlock's curls until the man lifted his head for a loving kiss.


End file.
